


Falling With You

by MKittyUltra, PollyMajor_AKA_ughvengersassemble



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, human!Cas AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2014-09-10
Packaged: 2018-02-16 22:33:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2286860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MKittyUltra/pseuds/MKittyUltra, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PollyMajor_AKA_ughvengersassemble/pseuds/PollyMajor_AKA_ughvengersassemble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Falling feels like flying; you’re unsupported, whirling through the air, moved only by the exertion of gravity upon your body. You spread your arms wide and feel the wind in your face, and it’s beautiful, whilst you’re falling. Of course, the difference between falling and flying is that flying you can control; you have dials or muscles that respond helpfully when you need them to; you can change direction; soar up towards the clouds. When you fall, the only way you can go is down. And sooner or later you’re going to hit the ground. It’s as certain as death and taxes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling With You

Falling feels like flying; you’re unsupported, whirling through the air, moved only by the exertion of gravity upon your body. You spread your arms wide and feel the wind in your face, and it’s beautiful, whilst you’re falling. Of course, the difference between falling and flying is that flying you can control; you have dials or muscles that respond helpfully when you need them to; you can change direction; soar up towards the clouds. When you fall, the only way you can go is down. And sooner or later you’re going to hit the ground. It’s as certain as death and taxes. 

I meet him in a bar, quite and warm, the smell of ale and men and beer sodden carpets providing a melancholy undertone to the whole affair. He bats his eyes, wide and blue, shimmering like sidewalks in moonlight when there are no streetlamps to taint their glow. He smiles, criminal, imprisoning; he stands like he has no idea that everyone in the room with any kind of sense is looking at him like he’s something to eat, including me. He drinks vodka and coke through a black straw, lips puckered around it, and I am almost immediately overwhelmed by the desire to walk up to him and touch him, kiss him, or possibly bite him. Instead I smile, and he smiles back, and I play it coy and sweet until I ask the barman what he’s been drinking and order him another, then sidle to the stool that’s opened up on his right. He’s a lightweight; another drink later I have to keep my hand at the small of his back to keep him from toppling backwards. I don’t mind. He’s warm and under my touch his shirt rides up so two of my fingers press right to his skin. I walk him home and leave him there, a feat which requires enormous restraint on my part, though I can’t refuse the drunken kiss he insists upon my mouth. I walk home glowing with the heat of him. He tasted like stars should taste. 

It moves fast from there, like that was the cliff and we jumped off it hand in hand. His name is Castiel, but I call him Cas. He’s an angel. He cries my name when I fuck him like he’s quoting Shakespeare, whispers it in my ear as he curls against my back, presses kisses into my neck. He says my freckles are fairy kisses, licks them possessively, claiming them for himself. They are angel kisses now. He leaves bite marks on my chest. I leave them on his ass. We smile across dinner tables where our parents sit like we are co-conspirators, hiding each others marks, stealing kisses like the teenage offspring of priests, secreting ourselves away behind doors and kitchen cabinets. He bites my lip until it bleeds. 

Half my stuff ends up at his place along with all of my time. Eventually I give in and collect the rest of my things, tell my landlord I won’t be coming back. We sleep that night on the rug in his living room, under a sheet. I look up at the stars through the sky light above us. He breathes in sleep through his mouth, one arms slung across my waist. I trace the lines of his chest, read them like fortune tellers read palms until I’m sure he’s real, and he’s mine. I don’t sleep until the sun begins to rise. 

We fight about place mats, about broken mugs and vacuuming. These fights feel important. His flat is a battle ground and a laboratory, we joust and experiment and learn about each other. He hates it when I leave my socks on in bed. I hate it when he throws his dirty clothes on the floor. I cook, he cleans, we both love and smile. I pick the music and he picks my clothes. We dance whilst we wash the dishes. He lights incense and the whole place smells like pine needles and I can almost hear them crunching under my knees. He sings in the shower and I drink water from the small of his back.

It’s a hangover, at first, but it lasts for days. Light hurts his eyes and he throws up anything that I manage to get him to put past his lips, even water. On the third day I drive him to the hospital, wrapped in the throw off the couch, my sunglasses jammed onto his face wonkily. I lead him into the emergency room by the hand. We laugh at how ridiculous he looks, but then he’s sick again. They ask if he’s taken drugs, we say no, they ask again. They say he has meningitis, put a thin tube in his arm that he says stings when he moves. I sleep at his beside. He cries in his sleep. 

He doesn’t get better; he only gets worse. He’s neither awake nor asleep, eyes half-open, barely blinking. He sweats and his chest shines. He can’t breathe. They say they must be wrong, that it must be something else. He doesn’t care. I hold his hand. They tell me to leave, but I can’t sleep without him. I light incense in the flat and lie on the rug, but there are too many clouds for me to see the stars. The next morning he’s gone from his bed and I panic, I shout, but someone grabs my arm. They are cutting him open, trying to fix him. I throw up in the sink. I didn’t say goodbye last night. I wait in a plastic chair. The walls are purple. I think about the hamster I had in third grade. I sob. 

He’s back but I can’t see him; they say he needs to rest. They did what they could but he couldn’t be fixed. Everyone talks too fast. They speak of registers and waiting lists, but all I can think is how can his heart be broken when I’m still here? I hit the wall and my knuckles bleed but I smile at them. 

When I see him he’s still sedated, and I’m glad because I can’t look at him at first. Thick tubes jut from the soft, kissable flesh at the bottom of his ribs, filled with blood. More drips into his arm. Thick white gauze obscures the scar in his chest. I climb up onto the bed beside him, put one hand on his arm and the other into his hair. He wakes up like this, before they tell me to move, and I’m glad. I kiss his forehead.

They give him morphine so he’s funny, charming, almost like he’s drunk. He barely seems to notice the tubes and the wires and the fact his sternum has been sawn in two, but when he does he panics, and I hold his hand but I have to look away. They release him after two weeks. He cries because he thinks he’s not beautiful anymore. I hold him, but I can’t hold him tight. He can’t lift heavy things. I help him undress. I cook, I clean, he sits by the window. I light his incense and wind my hands into his hair. I kiss his neck and he looks away. I hope things get better tomorrow, and tomorrow I hope the same. It goes on, we go on. 

The list is long and his blood type is rare. I consider putting a bullet in my brain when I find out we share it, but he knows what I’m thinking when he looks in my eyes. The scar heals first to angry pink then begins to fade. He moves slowly. He stands on the toes of my shoes and we dance. He tells me I should leave. I tell him that I need him. He says that I’m an idiot. I agree. I think he’s laughing but he’s sobbing into my shoulder. I carry him to bed, he’s got so small, so thin. He trembles like a bird under my touch. I kiss a trail from his mouth, down his scar. I fuck him like he’s made of glass. 

He wears a thin tube in his nose. He reads by the window. He cooks, I clean, we love both love and try to smile. We wait for a call that we hope will come. The pager sits at our bedside. I sleep with him looped in my arms, my lips in his hair. We imagine our life, plan holidays and children - Australia and four. He sings in the shower, and I hold him up. “I love you,” he tells me. I know. 


End file.
